Dirty Daddies Underground

Harper's POV

Mark strides past me without a word, snatching the glow off the counter with a grip a little too tight for comfort. I remain still in the chair, my eyes trained on him, watching every movement like a seasoned animal watches to capture.

He doesn't look at me. Not yet. Frantically, he sinks into the armchair across from mine, leans forward, and begins gathering the crumpled bills on the table. His fingers move fast, mechanically, like he's done this too many times before. He counts in silence, his brow furrowing into a thin line. Then his brow furrows.

"This is short," he mutters, though the accusation behind the words is anything but quiet.

Short? That's not possible. "It's not," I say quickly.

"Yes, it is," he agrees, lifting his head now, his eyes sharp and narrow.

It's the agreed amount. You heard them, the prices are dropping. I can't force people to pay more than they want to.

He echoes through his nose in that sharp, familiar way that means his temper is winding up, not down. "And I told you to offer them extras. Something to sweeten the deal."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. If extras could go stick a dick. "They weren't international," I lie, shrugging with forced nonchalance.

He scoffs, and across the room, Lesley lets herself melt into the sofa like she belongs there, like she's earned that ease. I've always thought of her as overwhelming, like a veteran in this business, it'd even spoiled as one. She settles herself with a certain pride, as though she's ascended above shame. I don't know why she hovers around us. Pity, maybe. Entertainment. Or maybe she sees something of her younger self in me, and likes the reminder.

"You're looking in the wrong place," she says lazily.

My blood chills. No, no, please don't—don't you fucking dare.

Mark turns toward her. "What does that mean?"

She smirks and leans forward, elbows on knees. "You're still hoping to make money from the street? That's old news. There are apps now—things like Underground, Sugar Babes, Downtown Kingdom."

Mark squints, confused. "Can you say that in simple fucking terms?"

She rolls her eyes. "They're platforms. Mostly kink-based. Most tours are legit, and they don't even call it prostitution. As long as you don't spell it out, they pretend it's not there."

"It's not right," I interject quickly. I know full well it's safer than what I'm doing now, but I can't bring myself to cross that line. Not yet. Maybe never.

"Oh, it is," Lesley says, still smiling. "Those apps are all about connecting advertisers, slaves, little, whatever, with clients, dominos, sugar daddies. There are two roles: the one who pays, and the one who gets paid."

Mark lets out a bark of laughter. "People pay for that shit?"

Without moving a hat, Loder pulls out her phone and tosses it into his lap. "Take a look. I've got listings for a few grand for a ride, even thirty thousand for a single right."

That gets his full attention. His fingers tighten around the phone, his gaze glued to the screen.

I cross my arms over my chest and speak slowly, deliberately. "Mark, I'm not comfortable meeting people online. On the street, I can at least see them first, get a look at their license plate, their car, their demeanor. Online? It's a literal fucking goose."

He turns his head toward me with deliberate slowness.

The look he gives me is thick with something like resentment, disappointment, and all coiled into one. "You're in debt for over a hundred thousand dollars, Harper. I'm sick of waiting for parties."

My throat tightens. I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood. The debt isn't mine, no matter how often Mark says it is. But the way he tells it, you'd think I'm the one who hurled the house over in flames. It saw the fire.

He left a space heater running in the basement, one of those old, rattling things that should've been thrown out a decade ago. He said he was trying to keep the pipes from freezing, but I told him not to use it. Victor. But he did anyway, and when it caught, it took everything, walls, furniture, photos, albums, even the damn cat. When the insurance company came to inspect, they found the heater had melted down to a black husk in the

wreckage. Unapproved device, faulty wiring, negligence. The payout was denied on the spot.

But Mark didn't blame the heater.

He blamed me.

"You left it plugged in," he swore. "You were down there doing laundry. You must've forgotten."

I hadn't. I hadn't even stepped into the basement that week. But it didn't matter. His voice got louder. His eyes got wider. And soon, he was telling everyone the same story. That it was my fault the house was gone. That I owed him. Now, I'm stuck trying to scrape together what I can, paying down a debt that I didn't create, haunted by a lie that's easier for him to live with than the truth. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before all this, before the fire, before the debt, before my name became synonymous with guilt in his mouth. There were good days once, I think. I remember laughter in the kitchen, the soft heat of his hand on my back, little priceless whispers at night. But even those memories feel poisonous now, like flowers blooming from a rotten root. The sweetness in them is laced with something bitter, and the warmth has long since turned cold. I tell myself I stay because I have nowhere else to go, and maybe that's true. My mother dropped calling years ago, long before the fire. My friends disappeared one by one, ghosted out of my life as I stopped replying, stopped showing up. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to be that absurd. I was absurd. Easier to say I was trivial or working late than explain why my eyes were always glassy and my smile never quite reached.

But the truth is, I stay because part of me believes this is all I deserve.

He doesn't hit me. He never has. And for a while, I clung to that like a life raft. As if the absence of an obvious charge to that brought whispered period between clenched teeth didn't leave their kind of scars. He doesn't shout often either, that's the thing. He says it all quietly, with that thin smile, like he's doing more before just by staying.

"You'd be on the street if it weren't for me."

"No one else would ever put up with you."

"I'll take care of you, don't you?"

And I do, because I don't know what else to do.

Somewhere deep down, I know those aren't kindnesses, they're chains. But when you hear the same thing enough times, it starts to sound like the truth. Especially when there's no one left to contradict him.

Sometimes I wonder if I've become smaller just to fit inside the life he's given me.

The money on the table is still there, sitting between us like a judgment. Not enough. It never is. I know what's coming next. He'll push for more. He'll want me to sign up for the apps. Smile at strangers. Probably it's all my choice.

And I'll do it.

Not because I want to, but because I've forgotten how to say no. Because I don't believe there's anything else left for me. Because maybe, just maybe, this is the only kind of love I'll ever get.

Mark stands abruptly and moves to the small table where I usually keep my phone. He picks it up without asking and begins tapping across the screen with focused intent. I sit rigidly, my eyes never leaving his hands. I can tell he's doing something, something he knows I won't like.

"You're going to reply to some of those," he says flatly.

My stomach drops. The room feels suddenly colder, tighter. I've never done anything like this before. You, I've sold myself for sex, but this feels different. This feels like stepping into another world entirely, a world with masks and roles, where everything is negotiated but nothing finds real.

"Maybe we could try a new location instead?" I ask, grasping at the only excuse I can find, my voice barely with weak hope.

Mark doesn't even look at me. He shoves his head and burrows himself into the sofa beside me. The leather creaks under his weight.

"Here," he says, thrusting the phone toward me. "Message this guy first."

I take the phone hesitantly and glance at the profile on the screen. The man is in his late forties. No... wait. My heart stutters. He's fifty-three. I'm twenty-five. He's more than twice my age. Something rises in my throat.

I scroll further, and his list of options appears beneath his photo, all neatly itemized like a trivial meme.

Dinner date with public affection - $500

Private cuddling and conversation - $350

Transferring over clothes, no nudity - $500

Overnight stay, fully clothed, talking, music, etc - $1,200

Light discipline (negotiable) - price upon request

The descriptions f*el cold and clinical, as though intimacy is just a set of tasks to be performed for a f*e. I can't find Mark's eyes on me, waiting, already convinced of the decision he thinks I'm too weak to refuse.

I want to throw the phone across the room. I want to scream at him, to demand a shred of dignity. But instead, I just keep staring at the screen, silently weighing which part of myself I'm supposed to sell.

My fingers hover uncertainly above the screen, the man's offer glaring back at me like a dare. My heart pounds in my chest, thick and rhythmic like a warning drum. I tell myself it's hardly dinner. Just a meal, a few touches, maybe a staged kiss on the cheek. I've endured far worse than that. At least that's what I whisper to myself, trying to quiet the panic blossoming in my gut.

After a moment of hesitation, I begin typing.

Hi, I saw your profile. I'm interested in the dinner date option, with public affection. Could you tell me about what sort of place you'd like to go to, and what you're expecting?

I don't send it right away. My thumb lingers over the screen, frozen with quiet dread. I know Mark is watching me. I know because nobody, his fingers drumming against the edge of the sofa, like I'm taking too long to breathe.

"You're wasting time," he snaps, his voice coated with disdain. "He's probably taking a break. Or busy. They all say they're interested, and then they ghost."

"I just want to sound polite," I murmur, not looking at him.

"You're being slow," he huffs, and before I can move, he leans over and snatches the phone from my hands.

I flinch. My chest tightens as he scrolls aggressively through the screen, tapping as though punishing it. His face is clenched, eyes narrowed in focus.

"There," he says, pushing the phone back into my hand. "Message this one instead."

I take it with reluctant fingers, the unease already crawling down my spine like ice water. I glance at the screen, expecting another profile like the last, another man, another list, another wicked menu of desires.

But my breath catches.

It's not one man.

It's three.

The profile photo shows them sitting together in a dark hotel room. They're all dressed in suits, their expressions too strong, too eager, the kind of serious that doesn't reach the eyes. They look like a pack, not individuals, but a unit. These men, not one.

My eyes scan the scene. The_Trimvariate.

The air leaves my lungs.

My hands start to shake.

I don't click further. I don't need to.

These men.

Not one.

Just three.